


there and back again

by zoldnoveny



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Character Study, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Gay Male Character, M/M, Relationship Study, basically Matt monologues about his feelings for 10k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoldnoveny/pseuds/zoldnoveny
Summary: Sometimes Matt just wants to exist in the same space as Mello without any effort, just hang around and do what he does normally with Mello in the background, so he doesn’t have to miss him. But then Mello ruins it, because nothing is ever enough for him. He gets what he wants, but it doesn’t fill that yawning hole inside him, so he’s immediately chasing after more, more, more.
Relationships: Matt | Mail Jeevas/Mello | Mihael Keehl
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	there and back again

**Author's Note:**

> TW for some discussion of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, as well as drug use and overdose. If any of these are harmful to you I'd advise not to read because they're scattered throughout. thanks <3
> 
> otherwise thanks for reading :)

The window in the living room screeches like a bitch when it’s opened. A layer of rust has settled in beneath the dust - rather, it’s been there since before Matt’s time, but he’s here to reap the benefits. The AC works, technically, but it rattles and spits warm air back up instead of offering any relief. So Matt settles for opening the screechy window, leaning over the edge to stare down the spiraling fire escape. That, too, is gritty with rust and bird shit. Matt is high enough to get lost in the little gaps between the railing, pin-point streetlights blurring into amorphous blobs of neon. No stars dapple the black sky like they did back in Winchester, where Matt would crawl out onto the roof and watch them in all their brilliance when he couldn’t sleep.

Stepping away, he goes hunting for his cigarettes and a lighter. Finds them sprawled on the couch, before slumping back over to sit in the window sill. Who knows what compels him to do so - it’s not something he’s ever done before, especially considering he prioritizes comfort and the sill offers anything but. Regardless, he finds himself enjoying watching the city lights bleed.

It’s not too unbearably hot outside, but it is thick and sticky with humidity. Like a solid wall, until a breeze blows and it softens. Matt’s shaggy bangs are carded back from his face. He feels tingly in his fingertips, and everywhere else is sort of… soupy. Warm, hazy, whatever. Slipping through his fingers, it feels like, like when he gets a grasp on his surroundings they’re tumbling back away again, twisting down the shitty fire escape steps.

He chain-smokes for a while - gets distracted watching his lighter flicker - before Mello is stomping inside. Obviously, Matt does not need to look up to know it’s him. Firstly: no one else ever fucking comes here. Secondly: no one else slams around as dramatically as him. 

The thing is, though, Mello hasn’t been around for a couple of days. He does that. Disappears for a while without preamble or explanation and then comes stomping back like he was never gone. Matt has gotten used to it.

Then, there’s a second pair of footsteps and Matt’s curiosity snags. He lifts an eye and finds a guy in a dress shucking off high heels by the door. He holds a wig in one hand, and his black hair is matted in sweaty curls to his forehead. A faceful of makeup. 

Mello brings all sorts of people around. That sort of surprised Matt, when he started hanging around. Mello didn’t seem like the type to show off something as vulnerable as his living space to the public. But he has a lot of friends - a lot of friendly acquaintances, anyway, and he likes to parade them through. He entertains. That aspect isn’t surprising, actually, because Mello has always adored being the center of attention. 

“The fuck are you doing over there?” His voice breaks through the whitenoise. Matt watches him balance on one foot while he undoes the long zipper of a knee-high boot.

“Looking out the window.” Matt replies flatly, turning his face back to continue doing so.

Mello snorts and turns to his friend in Matt’s peripheral. “That’s Matt. Matt, this is Pedro.”

“Hey,” Pedro drawls, the polite smile audible in his voice. 

“C’mon, let’s go.” Mello butts in. He leads his friend away, the sounds of their footfalls much softer now that they’re both without shoes. 

Matt’s never had friends. Well, besides Mello, but then again - have they ever really been friends? Sheesh. What a loaded question. Actually, though, Matt thinks that before anything else, Mello is his best friend. That’s how he categorized him as a kid, at least. He’s definitely not his boyfriend, anyway, and that’s the only other option, right? Who knows. It’s just - boyfriend sounds so juvenile. Impermanent. Like he’s just some guy Matt likes enough to fuck more than once, coincidentally, and that’s it. Maybe that’s an incorrect assumption. Matt’s not a romantic, so. He wouldn’t know. Saying Mello is his boyfriend feels simultaneously too broad and too narrow a descriptor. Mello is the sole person Matt can say has been a constant in his life, the only real anchor to, like, society. Or whatever. Since he was a kid, he hasn’t bothered actively engaging that much with anyone else. He doesn’t think he’s shy - but maybe that’s it. And Mello’s the only one intense enough to break through that anxious barrier. Really, Matt’s just socially awkward and quiet. It’s not that he’s too scared to talk to anyone else, he just doesn’t have anything worthy to say. But Mello drags it out of him, he supposes, because Mello makes him want to be interesting and amusing and funny and worthy of his time. He’s not just Matt’s boyfriend. 

Matt doesn’t like thinking about this sort of thing, because the meandering pondering never leads to answers. He just ends up more confused than he was in the first place. Anyway, moral of the story: Mello has friends, Matt doesn’t.

Eventually, Matt bores of the window, and stumbles off the sill to slink around. He grabs a beer from the fridge and pops the tab, watching it froth over the top, before sucking it up. On second thought, he grabs up two more, and wanders into the bedroom, where he figures Mello and his friend are. Maybe they’re having sex.

But they’re not. Instead, the both of them are rooting through Mello’s closet - which, technically, is also Matt’s, but that rule was overridden a while ago. Mello and all his leather have taken over - as they are wont to do. 

Matt leans up against the doorframe - the door was taken off its hinges a few months ago, when Mello kicked it loose in a fit of anger and later decided it was easier to just take the whole thing off instead of fixing b it. “Thirsty?” Matt asks.

Pedro’s head pops out. Close up, Matt can see that although his face is done up, it’s decidedly less intense than most other drag queens he’s seen. There’s a flick of eyeliner, some glitter smeared beneath an arched brow, and pouting red lips, but it’s not caked on. He’s got a pretty, delicate face for a guy, which Matt assumes is great for his line of work. 

He trots over and accepts the beers from Matt’s hands, nodding his thanks. When he passes one off to Mello, Mello takes it and tips it in Matt’s direction. Like a toast. He wears a smug little grin, cracking open the can and taking a slug. Matt stares at his bobbing adam’s apple in approval, watching a bead of liquid trail down the jut of his chin. 

Matt has fond memories of drinking beer with Mello. Once, when they were particularly young, they stood outside a grocery store for hours waiting for an adult to accept their wad of cash and buy a sixpack for them - which soon got boring, so Mello went up to the front counter to distract the guy at the register while Matt snuck out with the beer under his sweatshirt. Later, when they were old enough, they’d ride their bikes over to a local pub and use their spectacular fake IDs to get shitfaced on liters of Heineken. Good times. 

“Gotta say, I didn’t peg you for the type to have a steady boyfriend, Mel.” Pedro says from beyond the lip of his can. 

Matt waits for Mello to dispute it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs, and wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist. “I’m full of surprises.”

_ Yeah,  _ Matt thinks.  _ Sure are _ .

**“** How long have you two been together?” Pedro takes a respectable sip, eyes flitting between the two of them.

Once again, Matt waits for the fib, but it never comes. “We grew up together.” Mello says, sincerely, before going back to digging through his closet. All Matt sees of him now are his shoulderblades. He tosses an item of clothing over his shoulder, and Matt crosses one ankle over the other. “Who knows how long we’ve been really together.”

Pedro cocks an artful brow, smiling with teeth. “I’m shocked!” He laughs. “No offense, Mel, but that’s so…  _ wholesome _ . A childhood sweetheart.”

Mello pokes his face back out. “Why can’t I be wholesome?” His eyes slide over to Matt’s, and he winks. 

“Did you see all the crosses on the wall?” Matt cuts in. “He’s a grade-A Jesus freak.”

Pedro snorts. “My original statement stands.”

The conversation lulls for a moment.

“What are you doing in here, anyways?” Matt asks, peaking over at Mello’s back.

“Giving Pedro some of my old shit to try on. I don’t wear half of it anymore, so.”

Mello has a shit fuck ton of clothes. He loves that sort of stuff, which is funny, because when they were kids he wore the same formless shirt and baggy jeans everyday. Now, though, he’s all leather and mesh and zippers and belts and straps and - stuff. Mello takes very delicate care over his appearance, because he believes the best way to immediately assert dominance is by being devastatingly attractive. He walks into the room with his punk-dominatrix-choir boy looks and all eyes fly to him, whether that be in horror or fascination. He eats that shit up. 

“I don’t really like dark colors that much, but I can make some of this work.” Pedro remarks, perching on the edge of the bed, setting down his beer to hold out a flimsy shirt at arm’s length. Matt notes the flaring neon of his dress.

Matt doesn’t  _ get _ clothes, but he does like Mello’s skimpy outfits. He’s been wearing the same worn t-shirts and jeans since he can remember. He did have a growth spurt when was fifteen, right around the convenient time when he fled Wammy’s House, but since then, it’s been the same thrift-store treasures. He’ll buy anything with stripes. Creature of habit, and all that. 

“Cool.” Matt bobs his head, not really knowing what to do with himself, now. That exchange can hardly qualify as a conversation, since Mello did most of the talking, but he already finds himself running out of anything to say. This is why Mello is his only friend.

“You’re so cute.” Pedro beams at him. “Do you ever let Mello dress you up?”   
  
Matt immediately feels his ears get hot under his hair at the compliment. 

“No.” Mello replies. “He’ll die if he’s not dressed like a bum.”

“Hey!” Matt weakly defends himself. He rubs at the back of his head. 

“It’s charming.” Pedro says in his defense.

“Yeah, yeah.” Mello throws more stuff over his shoulder. “Get out of here, bum. You’re high as fuck.”

A smile sneaks across Matt’s face and he offers up a chuckle. “Heh, yeah.” He takes a drink. “Seeya.” He offers a flick of his fingers, like a wave, for goodbye. 

* * *

Matt is a slave to nostalgia. He knows this. He thinks back on Wammy’s what may be as frequently as once a day. The simplicity of those times eats at him, and he berates himself for not having enjoyed it the way he should’ve at the time. He was such a dumb little shit - it was good back then. A place to live with free food and any piece of technology he could desire at his fingertips. And Mello. Mello was a psychopath of a kid but he and Matt had fun together. That’s what it was in the beginning - just fun. When Matt first moved in, he was put in Mello’s room, and Mello went fucking crazy. Threw all his shit out the window and stomped around screaming his head off.  _ This is my room!  _ He’d insisted.  _ I don’t have to share!  _ He settled down, eventually, when he realized Matt didn’t occupy enough space to share anything. That was back when Matt was timid and afraid of everything, when he shrunk into himself and tried to disappear. Soon enough, that was done with, but by that time Mello was used to him. Sharing wasn’t so bad. Matt came out of the shell his father had beaten him into and joined Mello in causing mischief. That was what they did. Fun. Playing pranks, being bad, getting in trouble. Never a dull moment.

Matt misses it so much it’s unbearable. He spends way more time than acceptable shooting up trying to forget. Because, the worst part is, he remembers being absolutely miserable. Even when it was fun - when nighttime came, he’d crawl into bed and be unable to sleep, staring up at the goddamn vaulted ceiling, just wallowing in it. In  _ what? _ What was he sad about? He remembers being so anxious his hands shook under the blanket, his breath catching on each exhale. He had to force himself to breathe because it kept getting stuck at the back of his throat. He would look over at the lump in Mello’s blankets, the top of his blonde head, and everything would get that much worse. Mello didn’t ever seem to be sad - just angry. Matt didn’t know if he was jealous of that. What a stupid thing to be jealous of - if he was.

Still. He wants it back. He hates this new life. He never wanted this. This is Mello’s dream - catching Kira. Matt is just along for the ride, like he always is. That’s always been his thing. Just go along with it. He doesn’t have a strong enough sense of self to do anything else. He’s dependent on anyone that so much as looks at him. He needs everyone around him to define him in order to feel like a real person.  _ Especially  _ Mello. He’s in love with him. Obviously. If he hadn’t followed Mello to the US he would’ve OD’d in Winchester. Well, he still might, here. Who knows. Anyways, he hates himself for it. It’s goddamn stupid. Obsessing over Mello the way that he does is not something that he’s proud of - nor is it something he would ever make known. He’s never so much as told Mello he loves him. He’s just not that kind of guy. There are all these feelings swimming around in him, but he can’t bring himself to ever truly acknowledge them. Better to push them down and hide them under his impassive mask. Classic coping mechanism - pairs nicely with the drug abuse. 

Here’s another question: would he even like Mello as much if he didn’t make him feel like shit? Matt wonders if he sticks around Mello because he feels like he deserves it - the way Mello treats him. Not that Mello is some terrible abuser - to him - he’s just distant. And driven. And otherworldly. It’s easy to feel insignificant, especially with him flitting around and leaving Matt in the dust. He gets angry, still, too, but so does Matt. Matt yells back. He’s not a bitch. Sometimes he’s the one to start it, because that way Mello will stay to fight, and Matt gets sick of watching him leave. 

Maybe a week has passed since he last saw him. They got into an argument, then, and Mello stormed off anyways.  _ I don’t have time for this bullshit _ . He’d said.  _ I’ve got things I need to do _ . Right.  _ Well, good for fucking you _ . Matt shot back, to the slamming door _.  _

Mello presses his warm body up against Matt’s back as he climbs into bed. He’s sweaty, but Matt doesn’t find it gross. It’s summer. The angular line of his nose is shoved into the nape of Matt’s neck while a palm smooths up Matt’s side. Mello exhales against him, hot breath sending his hair parting. 

“Hey.” Matt grumbles. He wasn’t sleeping. He never sleeps.

Mello’s hand settles on the waistband of Matt’s pajama pants, before his fingers walk lower and he’s cupping him through the flannel. Matt’s dick is utterly disinterested, but Mello doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses his neck.

“Nice to see you too.” Matt pushes his face into the pillow, muffling his words. He knows this is Mello trying to apologize, but honestly, he doesn’t want to have sex right now. 

Mello talks about what he gets up to sometimes, but not often. Mafia shit. That’s exhilarating to think about - Matt is quite comfortable in his own little life of crime. Selling RATs, stealing credit card information, building malware to bid off. That’s just for pocket cash. Mello’s had him hack specific people and tear down their reputation brick by brick, beyond the secrecy of cyberspace. Once he found out some guy had a folder just fucking overflowing with kiddie porn. Nasty shit. But he published it all on the guy’s company’s website and got it taken down. Obviously the company was driven to failure and the pedo got in huge trouble. Matt recalls faintly that he had been a contact of Mello’s boss who mouthed off or something. Anyway, considering, it’s a pretty low risk job. Matt knows he won’t get caught, he’s too good. Everything he does is from the safety of his apartment, usually sprawled across the couch, still in his boxers and maybe eating chips or something. 

Mello tells Matt about cutting coke with glass and ground up drywall, cornering people into alleyways and leaving them beaten and robbed, kidnapping adults and children alike, holding guns to temples and pulling the trigger, sleeping with men and forcing their secrets out with his hands around their necks while they’re still inside him, stomping faces into the pavement with the thick heel of his boot, slicing through muscle and bone till blood spits, red and gorey, all over him. Mello has done some seriously fucked up shit, and he does it with no barrier of protection. He gets in people’s faces when he ruins their lives, enigmatic but  _ seen _ , while mafia politics flutter around him dangerously. He could die from that in a second. No matter how smart Mello is, he can’t stop bullets. It’s scary as shit, but also pretty cool. Badass. Mello is fearless and unapologetic. He kills people. Then he comes home to Matt and touches his dick. It’s weird, how unweird Matt finds it. It feels normal. 

He’s never had any moral dilemmas. About anything, really. For that, he blames Wammy’s. That’s always a good fallback - his messed up childhood. Wammy’s desensitized them to immorality. They were dealt cases full of murder and rape and drugs and kidnapping on the daily. That was just the way it was, and that was life. It was their responsibility to try and mitigate it, at least a bit, by sending the guilty party to meet his own unfortunate fate. There was never a happy ending. Growing up in that sort of environment - obviously, it screws with you. Matt can’t be blamed.

Matt can’t imagine a world where Mello is a good samaritan. Maybe not a Mafioso, but certainly not a pristine law-abiding citizen. L sure as hell wasn’t. And as for himself, he doesn’t know. Could he be, like, an IT guy? Yikes. No way. He’d always do hacking on the side, he thinks. He’s not the sort to claim to have a  _ passion _ , but he likes what he’s good at. It would suck not to do that anymore. It’s fun. So there: even if the circumstances were different, both of them would be criminals. 

When they were really little, maybe somewhere around six or seven, B told Mello he looked forward to seeing his record when he grew up. He turned to Matt and gave him a secret wink while Mello went batshit, insisting he’d never be a criminal. B always predicted Mello would turn out to be some sort of evil mastermind.  _ You really wanna surpass L? Wanna leave him in the dust? Be the bad guy he can’t catch. The one that got away.  _ Matt thinks that stuck with Mello, a little bit, even though the mafia stuff is all in the name of vengeance. 

Perhaps it’s vengeance for Beyond, too. 

“-- Matt? Do you even listen when I talk to you?” Mello is asking loudly in Matt’s ear. 

Matt rolls onto his back to finally look at him, and notes with surprise that there is a smear of purple blooming across Mello’s temple. A bruise. Matt lifts a hand to gently touch his thumb to it, concern creasing his brow. “What’s this?”

Mello ducks away to shuffle his bangs neatly over his forehead. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Mello comes home in various states, but he’s very rarely roughed up. If he’s bloodied, it’s someone else’s. This is uncommon. 

Matt draws his hand away, letting the tips of his fingers run down the smooth contour of Mello’s cheek. “If you say so.” He won’t force it out of Mello if Mello doesn’t wanna talk. He doesn’t have the energy for that and it never works, anyway. 

“I was with this woman and her husband came home - he whapped me before I had the chance to react. Caught me by surprise.” Mello ends up relenting.

“Woah, wait.” Matt props himself up on his elbows, forcing Mello to roll onto his side. “You were with a  _ chick _ ?” He can’t keep the shock from creeping into his voice. 

Mello rolls his eyes. “Is that so hard to believe?”   
  


“Uh, yeah.”

There is no hiding that the sharpness of Mello’s exhale is, in fact, a laugh. He’s even smiling. “It’s business. Her husband is in a gang that’s been messing with our stuff, so I was sent to get information. The guy is pretty notoriously homophobic. Beat up some dudes outside a gay club really badly - I think one died. It seemed easier to just go through her and snoop around while she was asleep or something. Or get her to talk.”

“You slept with a rival gangster’s mafia wife.” Matt repeats back. “I feel like your life is a shitty soap opera.” 

Mello laughs again, this one more obvious than the first. “I dunno, I think it’s pretty thrilling. I’d watch it.” Suddenly, he’s throwing one leg over Matt’s hip, and settling into his lap. From this angle, he’s outlined in the faint light from the window, where streetlamps are gleaming. It looks like he’s been dipped in gold.

Matt rubs a palm over his bare stomach - he must’ve taken his shirt off on the way in. The slight muscles tighten at Matt’s touch, just a little bit, and Matt finds it endlessly entertaining. He turns his hand over to skim his knuckles up Mello’s chest, and Mello catches him there and holds his hand over his heart. It’s an unfamiliarly tender gesture. Mello’s hand is smaller than his, but his fingers and long and slender where Matt’s are sorta round. Mello’s pulse skitters, which makes Matt feel powerful. 

“You should go to bed.” Matt tells him, gaze tracing over the bags under Mello’s eyes. “You look tired.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Mello drops his hand, and Matt slides his own down to his waist. “Want me to get you off first?”

“Nah.” Matt starts touching Mello’s abdomen again.

Mello bats his hand away, “Quit it, that tickles.” He’s grinning - he looks pretty. Handsome. Mello has always been stupidly good looking and Matt hates him for it. 

He climbs off Matt’s lap and burrows into the blankets to sleep. 

* * *

Matt wanders into the kitchen somewhere in the ambiguity right after sunrise. He can tell the light outside is still murky and new, because when it slips through the blinds it’s golden pink. He managed to get a few moments of sleep, which is rare, and leaves him feeling less rested than he would normally. He was torn from bed by a nightmare, which has faded from memory before he had the chance to wrap his mind around it. He gets nightmares a lot. He hardly ever remembers them, but they’re annoying as all hell. 

As he rifles through the fridge for something to eat, he hears Mello in the other room, talking and pacing. He must be on the phone. Matt draws out a half empty carton of milk and goes to pour himself some cereal. Mello’s voice steadily increases in volume, his footsteps drawing closer, and he’s exploding into the kitchen.

“I understand that,” He says, voice edged with frustration. “But I need you to listen to what I’m saying. If we go back now, that’ll just make more problems in the future. Just deal with this now and we’ll work out the consequences later.” He wedges his cellphone between his shoulder and ear and leans over Matt to get into the cabinet, grabbing a couple of chocolate bars he stashes up there. A stream of air bursts from his mouth in an angry sigh. “I’m not sure why you think that’s my problem. You need to deal with your personal shit on your own time…” He turns on his heel and starts back out, stomping away with finality. Matt leaves him to it while he rubs a dirty spoon clean on the edge of his shirt.

He starts eating his cereal on the couch, socked feet propped up on the coffee table, powering up his laptop beside him. He was supposed to finish some job for Mello a few nights ago, but he wasn’t in, so Matt let himself procrastinate and didn’t get it done. It’s almost there, anyways.

He fucks around with that for a while and finishes eating, setting the bowl aside and pulling his computer into his lap. The screen is crowded with overlapping tabs, stacked atop one another like pages in a book. Matt clicks between them and taps away at the keys with practiced ease and detachment. Eventually, he lights himself a cigarette and puffs on that. Then he notices there’s a half-smoked bowl resting on the table and goes for it, instead. Grittiness crawls to the back of his throat and burns through his chest pleasantly. The murkiness of a high starts to linger a few deep inhales in, and takes hold minutes later. It’s nothing big, but a happy warmth begins to eat at any fraying anxiety. Matt is hardly as naturally anxious as he was in his youth - although he had been good at masking it back then - but the weed still helps with the residual stuff.

He works more, packs a new bowl, smokes again, works a little more. The hours stretch from morning to noon. Matt is getting bored, so he decides to take a break and play some Xbox. Just as he’s loading up BioShock, he hears Mello approach.

“I thought you were working.” Comes his sharp voice. 

“Was.” Matt grunts back. A cigarette hangs limply from his mouth, spinning out smoke leisurely. “Taking a break.”   
  


Mello scoffs behind him. “Well, don’t.” Matt feels his eyes on the back of his neck. “I wanted you to get that done a while ago, actually, and I wasn’t going to say anything but I really need it before I leave. So get to it.”

Matt does not suppress a snort. Mello is so fucking bossy. That might work on his mafia goons, but Matt doesn’t do well taking orders like he’s some sort of sniveling subordinate. Mello thinks he can get away with it because Matt likes him or whatever. 

“Jesus man, can you chill out?” Matt asks, thumbing around his controller to start playing. “I’ll get there.”   
  


“No, I can’t  _ chill out _ .” Mello’s voice is now much closer to his ear, and he’s leaning over Matt to snatch his controller away.

Matt makes a noise that is embarrassingly close to a yelp. Thankfully, he’d just started, but still. That bitch! “What the shit!” Matt spins around, leveling a glare up at Mello.

“I need you to do what I ask.” Mello’s voice is firm, like he’s talking to a child.

Suddenly, a wave of anger washes over Matt. “You think you’re my fucking boss or something?” He snaps, feeling his patience wearing down thin. It’s always the same with Mello. “I don’t work for you, dude, you can’t order me around like I’m your bitch. I do this shit for you because I can, can you act appreciative for once in your fucking life? Jesus Christ. I’ll get to the damn thing when I get to it. It’s almost done. Quit throwing a fit.”

Mello’s face twists into a grimace. “I’ll act appreciative once you actually accomplish the things I ask you to! Don’t act like you’re not the one who agreed to help me out in the first place! That only works if you fucking  _ do the shit  _ \- am I supposed to be so enmored by your minimal effort that it doesn’t matter you dick around more than anything else? I need you to do what I ask if this will work. If you’re not able to do that much then I’ll find someone else to do it for you.” Mello’s voice is like venom, his hands curled, taut, into fists at his sides.

Ouch. That smarts a little bit. Matt has never cared much about being superior- he was always happy to coast along, unnoticed - but he  _ knows _ he’s the best at what he does. Mello knows that too, and there’s no way anyone else he could bring along would be better than Matt.

But they’d probably be more efficient, which is the point. Why can’t Mello appreciate him at face value? He can get more done in a day, while fucking around and taking breaks, than someone else can in two. Isn’t that worth more than efficiency? Just - the brilliance of it all?

Fuck. Matt likes to pretend that his ego wasn’t inflated by growing up in Wammy’s, but it definitely was. Well. So what? At least he’s not as bad as Mello.

Matt finds that he has stood up, and is now facing Mello, the couch between them a barrier. Mello glares something fierce, nostrils flaring and mouth pressed into a tight line. He can never take anything halfway - always to the extreme. So when he gets upset he’s never just mad. He’s furious. 

It’s so exhausting being with him, sometimes. He’s hardly ever around and when he is, he’s making demands, getting pissed and distracting himself,  _ still _ , with work. He sneaks in little moments of intimacy like he’s trying to keep Matt occupied - like dangling a bone in front of a dog to keep it running along indefinitely. Sometimes Matt just wants to exist in the same space as Mello without any effort, just hang around and do what he does normally with Mello in the background, so he doesn’t have to miss him. But then Mello ruins it, because nothing is ever enough for him. He gets what he wants, but it doesn’t fill that yawning hole inside him, so he’s immediately chasing after  _ more, more, more _ . He’s never satisfied with just being with Matt. Matt needs to be productive in order for Mello to allow himself to want him there. Matt considers himself a laid back guy, but it’s infuriating. Mello infuriates him. It makes him want to scream.

Can’t it be enough that they, like, love each other? 

But then, sometimes Matt forgets even that much. It’s easy for it to get lost in all the chaos. 

Mello is still yelling, but Matt has drowned him out. He doesn’t want to listen to this bullshit anymore, so he’s not going to make himself. Why waste energy on a lost cause? Taking a page from Mello’s book, he turns around, grabs his keys, and promptly leaves the apartment. Slammed door and all. 

Usually, he’ll stay and fight with Mello for long enough to get him to stick around, but it doesn’t feel worth it right now. Well, shit - has it ever really been worth it? Why does Matt try so hard? He’s so stupid, but he can’t help it. He knows now that no matter what, he will always go back to Mello. Rather, he will always wait for Mello to come back to him. No matter how badly he hurts him, Matt will never stop wanting him. Like an old smoker sucking down cigarettes through their tracheal tube. 

* * *

After driving around aimlessly for a while, Matt feels satisfied enough to head back to the apartment. He’s always been terrible at staying mad for long. Why torture yourself with the burden of anger when you can just forget about it and move on? Staying pissed won’t change anything, and it just eats away time and brainpower. So by the time Matt gets home, he’s over the argument. Of course, though, Mello is not there to share the sentiment. Matt feels some residual frustration well up in him, but wills it away. Whatever. Mello had mentioned he was heading out, anyway, so Matt isn’t surprised to find him gone. It just sort of sucks. 

* * *

Every once in a while, back at Wammy’s, this child psychiatrist was brought in to talk to the kids. It seemed ridiculously showy at the time, to pretend like something as frivolous as mental health was important to an institution that prided itself on tearing any scrap of humanity from orphaned children. They’d be ranked smartest to dumbest once a month in some sort of twisted social hierarchy - which, clearly, in of itself gave them all issues - and then paraded to a secluded room to talk about their feelings. As if they were seen as individuals. Matt found it all terribly patronizing. He hated being patronized,  _ pitied _ , because he hated people paying attention to him. Just blend into the background, that’s all he wanted. Invisibility. To sit down and look someone in the eye and tell them:  _ this is how I’m feeling right now and I don’t think that’s okay  _ was fucking terrifying. During those sessions, he would just shrug his shoulders a lot and make vague noises when that wouldn’t suffice. 

He wonders, though, if things would be different if he’d have spoken up. Probably not. So what if he told the psychiatrist lady with her pencil skirt and sleek bun that he was so anxious at night he forgot how to breathe, and that he couldn’t bear to close his eyes and sleep because he couldn’t face the images behind his eyelids. So what if he told her about that time he’d climbed up to the top of the roof in the middle of the night and almost jumped off? 

Mello actually told on him once. About the sleeping thing. He got called into Roger’s office, and the old man looked at him through steepled fingers as he instructed him to take a seat. Matt spent a lot of time in that office, usually with Mello, because they got in trouble often. This time felt different, though, and it was. 

“ _ You’ve been having trouble sleeping?” _ Roger asked.

Matt shrugged.

“ _ Sleep is vital for the development of a young mind. We can’t have you in bad health.” _

Then they gave him pills. He tried them a few times but they didn’t really do anything for him, just made him feel sluggish and dumb. So he sold them to an older boy, then took the money to ride his bike to a nearby McDonalds and buy weed from a guy in the parking lot. He liked the weed a lot better. Sometimes, it helped him fall asleep, so there. 

Back in those days, he would wonder about what Mello told the psychiatrist. Would Mello even say anything? On one hand, he loved to talk about himself, and on the other, he hated to admit weakness. Matt had his own suspicions about Mello, which remain to this day. Mello has a seriously bad temper. A violent, exploding, seething temper. It’s, like,  _ godly _ . Otherworldly. Kind of amazing, honestly, which is probably fucked up of Matt to think. Mello just seems so miserable sometimes. A grandiose, poetic misery. Matt thinks that he’s sad but doesn’t want to admit it, so he masks it with anger. But when he’s not angry, he’s totally calm and cool and collected. It just takes something to set him off. He’s a hydra - slice one head off and two sprout from the bleeding stump, each more vicious than the last. 

What did he tell that lady? Did they give him pills like they gave Matt? Did he sell them or flush them down the toilet or what? Jesus, Matt is nosey. These sorts of thoughts gnaw at him when he’s alone and has to think. That’s where the drugs come in handy.

Okay, but it's not like Matt’s an addict just because he’s obsessed with Mello. It’s not just him. Matt thinks about all sorts of shit. Also, he just has the addict gene, he thinks, so it was inevitable. His mom overdosed in front of him when he was five, limp across the cold tile of their bathroom floor, arms streaked with the same track marks Matt bares himself, now. And his father was an alcoholic after that, a mean drunk who liked smacking Matt and his siblings around. Matt really loved his mom, he remembers. Even though she was a junkie. Maybe he’s just trying to replicate her in himself by doing the same drugs she did - which would be really fucking pathetic, by the way. He chases that thought away by - you guessed it! - shooting up some more. 

Oh - one of the shittiest parts about the insomnia is that L was an insomniac, as well. So when he used to come to the House and visit, Matt would trot down the steps and find him trudging around, tug on his shirt and convince him to play videogames with him. They bonded. Matt hates L for what he did to them all, but he misses him all the same. He misses the guy, not the letter. It fucking sucks. Everytime he can’t sleep, he thinks about curling up next to L on the couch and playing Pokemon, L ruffling his hair and smiling down at him with those owlish eyes, like he was looking at him instead of through him.

* * *

After an endless stream of coding, which may or may not end up taking a couple of days, Matt goes out. It’s been a while since he’s done so, and the change of scenery is honestly kind of nice. The last time he was out was when he stormed out of the apartment during his and Mello’s latest argument. He just drove around then, but this time he parks and hauls himself into a satisfyingly dingy bar. 

It’s dimly lit and moderately crowded - tall, red backed chairs before a beaten wooden bartop, round tables scattered over a grimy tile floor, music croning tinnily over the loudspeakers. Matt sidles up to take a seat, shuffling to get comfortable, and orders a drink. He’s not planning on getting shitfaced - he did drive here, after all, and he’s not  _ that  _ stupid - but it would be nice to get buzzed. He sips his whiskey when it comes. Does anyone really like the taste of alcohol, or are they just pretending so they have an excuse to get drunk? Matt likes beer, but that doesn’t really do anything for him, so he chokes down stronger stuff when he wants to feel it. 

When he’s about halfway through the glass, a girl is sitting next to him. He notes her in his peripheral without much thought, chewing on some ice and enjoying the crack between his teeth. 

“Hey,” The girl butts in, smiling when Matt glances at her. “Buy me a drink?” Her lips curl into a smile.

Matt regards her silently for a few moments, trading splinters of ice between each side of his mouth. His tongue burns cold. Does that work? If you’re a man and a woman comes up to you, demanding you get her something, you just do because she’s a woman and you wanna fuck her or whatever?  _ Look at this power I have over you, buy me shit.  _ Is that flirtation? Matt hasn’t been flirted with enough to know, but he thinks even if he was, he still wouldn’t quite get it. Although, he does understand the appeal of such boldness - a demand instead of a question. It’s shaped like a suggestion, but Matt knows better. 

He buys her the drink.

She has blonde hair that curls over her shoulders in frazzled ringlets, parted over her forehead, pierced ears peeking past. Blue eyes. Pretty, if Matt cared enough to think about that. Does he? The thought is there. He pokes it. She’s pretty. Good looking. Okay, why not.

“I’m Chelsea.” She introduces. “I come here after work a lot, but I’ve never seen you around.”

Matt gestures vaguely to himself. “Matt.” He knows he should say more and contribute to the conversation, but he can’t think of anything clever. 

“Nice to meet you, Matt.” She forges on, bravely, before lifting her glass and giving it a little shake so the icecubes clink against the edges. “Thanks for the drink.” Another smile.

“Sure.” Matt skirts his eyes around. Um. What else?

“You’re kinda awkward, aren’t you?” She laughs. When he glances over, there is no ill will written over her face. She smiles, still, her eyes crinkled up around the corners. Matt does not find himself offended by her words. “It’s cute.” Her eyelashes lower. “You’re cute.”

Running his tongue over his teeth, Matt wonders. Obviously, it’s clear that this woman’s objective is to sleep with him. Could he do something like that? Sleep with someone besides Mello? Or, rather, does he  _ want  _ to? Before the two of them reconnected, he messed around with some guys, but that was different. He and Mello are, like,  _ together _ now. Though, Mello fucks other people, Matt knows. Matt’s never been a particularly jealous person, so it doesn’t bother him. He’s not Mello’s keeper, so if Mello wants to slut around, whatever. He’s just never considered if he wants that to go both ways. 

Also, she’s a chick. Matt has never really pondered over his sexuality or anything, because there hasn’t been reason to, beyond the obvious:  _ oh, I like dudes _ , which he discovered long ago. He figured out he wasn’t straight, but didn’t quite manage to look back and sort through the intricacies of that. Sure, he’s attracted to men, but is that it? 

Okay, curiosity piqued. Matt finds that he wants to feel out the borders of his sexuality and discover if he could enjoy sex with a woman.

“I’m glad at least one of us gets kick out of my social ineptitude.” Matt works out, biting back like he’d tease Mello. That’s kind of the only solid experience he has. 

She laughs from behind the lip of her glass. A high pitched giggle, so different from Mello’s throaty snicker. Matt should stop thinking about him right now if he’s gonna do this right. 

They swim through more aimless small talk, batting back and forth with sharp-tongued flirtation. Matt gets another drink for both himself and Chelsea, who is getting tipsy far quicker than him. The rosy flush of her cheeks suits her. Matt can feel himself getting more and more invested in this idea, thinking  _ yeah, why not? Why haven’t I done this yet? _ Maybe he’s always been so wrapped up in Mello he forgot he could like other people, and especially people of the opposite gender. During the tenderest parts of his adolescence when he was figuring himself out, he was so preoccupied with obsessing over his male crush that everyone else - especially girls, who he was  _ supposed  _ to like that way - faded into the background. 

For a few weeks when they were thirteen, Mello spent a good amount of time swapping spit with a girl in their class, Linda. Although Matt is not the jealous type, he had been ripe with envy. As a kid, it was easier to get emotionally invested in things, and everything was all the more intense. Especially his feelings for Mello. He swam around in a fantasy where he and Mello could be prepubescent forever, best friends and occupied only with each other. Beyond girls and sex and other complications. He started having wet dreams and getting boners in the showers when he saw naked boys wandering around between stalls, but he pushed it down and refused to acknowledge it - all for the sake of living in that hazy dream with Mello. He didn’t want to grow up into a sexual being because he hated change, and things were good as they were. Meanwhile, Mello was eager to explore that new budding side of himself. Linda had an obvious crush on him, so he took advantage of it to play around with his identity. He told Matt he was going to master all sorts of things with her, just so he could be especially impressive when someone else rolled around. 

One night, when Mello and Linda had snuck downstairs to swallow each other’s tongues in the chapel, Matt dared to seek out porn on his laptop. Easily enough, he had a whole new world blooming at his fingertips. It seemed more violent than anything, women held down and desecrated, aggression softened by their fabricated desire. Matt mostly felt bad for them, but got an erection nonetheless, and masturbated to their masked pain. With this, a new door was opened, and he allowed himself to venture into indecency. Just something else for him to make jokes about, which had always been a cherished coping mechanism. 

Anyway, Mello had worked out his feelings towards girls before even daring to go to Matt. He could be sure of his homosexuality before even touching it. 

Opposingly, Matt is seeing boobs for the first time at the age of nineteen, after years of enjoying gay sex. It’s weird. He feels like he’s doing this in the wrong order, but only because his point of reference is Mello. Why does it all come back to him? Why does anything have to go in any order, ever? Why is there expectations or structure or rules, when they’ll all inevitably be broken? Why does it matter that Matt is doing it differently than Mello? They’ve always been two separate entities, can’t Matt let himself have that?

Chelsea’s apartment is a lot nicer than his and Mello’s. It’s clear that she doesn’t live alone, as evidence for other people staying there scatters across the space - sets of different sized shoes in the doorway, multiple coasters on the coffee table, mismatched clothing strewn over chair backs. Still, her roommates don’t seem to be there, as she presses Matt up against the door. It clicks shut under his weight. He drove here, while she gave directions, and that acts as evidence for his lack of drunkenness. He feels too clear-minded for a one-night stand from a bar.

As she cranes up to kiss him, and he bends to reciprocate, an ache settles in his neck. She’s much shorter than him, whereas he and Mello have always been around the same height. He’s never had to think about things like his neck hurting from kissing, nor has he had the think about undoing a bra. That happens after she lifts off her shirt, coming back from under it with her hair mussed. Matt fumbles with the clasp, feeling like his fingers have transformed to sausages. Where is the dexterity developed from years of pecking at a gaming controller? She laughs, dimpling, and twists an arm behind her back to do it for him. There. Boobs. 

Matt’s hands return to her chest, and he hesitantly cups them in his palms. Supple and warm, skin tender like the gentle insides of Mello’s thighs.  _ Stop that _ , he scolds himself, for thinking about Mello right now.  _ This is not about him _ . 

She takes off his shirt, and they stumble to her bedroom. 

Here, they kiss more on her bed. Her mouth is much softer than anything Matt’s experienced with a guy, wet with lipgloss. He finds himself missing the catch of chapped lips, which is just. Obscure, isn’t it? He thinks about kissing men when there’s a little scratch of stubble on their chin, the rasp of their mouth, the sharp turn of their jaw. It’s not even that he’s into macho dudes, and is drawn to masculinity. He’s always liked more androgynous types. Still though, there’s an edge there that is not present in women. At least, not in Chelsea. 

But he does it. The whole thing. They roll around in bed and Matt comes out of it with that under his belt - sex with a woman. Laying there next to her, as they both catch their breath and stare at the ceiling, he feels the same. He’s never been one to put much value into antiquated milestones like losing one’s virginity, but maybe he was expecting at least a minor change in attitude. Instead, all he can think about is wanting to go home. Not wanting to do this again. 

He doesn’t think it’s Chelsea, because he likes her well enough. She’s a nice girl, and obviously knew what she was doing. It was hardly torture, sleeping with her. It felt good. But Matt wouldn’t do it again. In fact, he knows now that he would never do this with a woman ever again. It’s clearly not his thing.

So there. He’s gay. 

The problem is, he isn’t sure what to do about that at this moment. Obviously an easy solution is never seeking out heterosexual intercourse again, but for now he’s stuck. Is it rude to leave? Should he wait until the morning? It’s not that he particularly cares what Chelsea thinks of him - but Matt’s too awkward to immediately assert himself. At least he feels that way. During one night stands in the past, he usually just waited for the other guy to fall asleep and then left. For whatever reason he feels hesitant to do so now.

Maybe it’s some weird, subconscious hint of chivalry. Not wanting to treat a woman like that.

Yeah, right. It’s probably just that Matt doesn’t wanna go home to an empty house. 

* * *

In the end, he winds up resorting to his old method and waiting for her to fall asleep to sneak out. After shrugging back into his wrinkled clothes and tiptoeing out of her apartment, he drives home under the neon blur of the city’s lights. With his window rolled down, he drapes his arm out, cigarette burning lazily between his fingers, listening to the 80’s station spit static through the radio. 

Surprisingly enough, when he pulls into the apartment building’s lot, he sees Mello’s bike parked in its usual spot, protected from the elements by its cover. So Matt treks up the stairs with a little flame burning in his chest, knowing that Mello is home. He wonders, when was the last time Mello came back and wasn’t immediately greeted by him? He feels a little proud, having made him wait, but also a little guilty. At least he finished the last job Mello asked of him, although he’s sure if he’s back there will be something new to add to his to-do list.

Mello is sitting on the couch when he shuffles inside, watching television. He’s reclined with his socked feet propped up on the table, wearing boxers and one of Matt’s characteristic striped shirts, hair tied back into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. His eyes follow Matt as he ducks through the doorway, chocolate snapping between his teeth.   
  
“Hey.” He greets, looking back to the TV. Predictably, it’s the news.

Matt toes off his shoes. Plods barefooted to sit next to him.

“Have a good time?” Mello asks, without shifting his focus. 

The news anchor rattles off recent news about Kira - stuff that Matt already knows from his involvement in the case - but is spun into theatrics and sensationalism. He supposes it’s inherently sensational, just the nature of it, but it feels ingenuine the way it’s presented to the world. Condescending even, as it’s turned into something partisan. Support for Kira or lack thereof has become a political issue, a matter of personal offense. Media takes full advantage of that.

Matt sags against the couch, draping his arms over the back. “I guess.” 

“You smell like shitty perfume.”    
  
Matt spares a glance down at Mello, over the curve of his head, his fringe, the tips of his eyelashes. There’s old mascara smeared around his eyes, as well as heavy bags that peak through layers of concealer. Exhausted as he is, he looks older. Matt knows that, coupled with the inherent maturity gained through his line of work, and the substance abuse, and the trauma, is all a factor. Nineteen is really still just a kid, but Mello bears the weight of his years like a burden. He looks past his mid-twenties.

“I’ll shower.” Matt tells him.

“No, it’s fine.” Suddenly, Mello curls into his side, resting his cheek over Matt’s collarbone, head snug against his shoulder. He draws his legs to his chest in a near imitation of L, and puts a hand on Matt’s chest. “Just know that whoever you fucked, she was a cheap bitch.”   
  
Matt can’t help but laugh. It’s such a Mello thing to say, he’s unsure how he ever anticipated any other reaction. Juvenile envy hidden under a veneer of superiority. That’s fine. It’s almost comforting. He isn’t sure if he wanted Mello to get mad at him or fight him over it, but this is better. 

“Consider it a failed experiment.”

“In what way?”   
  
“I guess I was just wondering if I liked women.”

A scoff. “You should’ve just asked me. I could have told you you don’t.”   
  
“Oh, really? You know me so well?”   
  
“Well, you’re hardly difficult to read, Matty.” 

Warmth is sapped from Matt’s side as Mello withdraws to put distance between them, straightening his posture so they’re eyelevel. In the dim lighting, his eyes are swallowed by shadows and look black. Saturated blue light leaks from the TV, lands in elegant strokes over Mello’s dramatic, high cheekbones. In the folds of his golden hair, which turns green. “I’ve never even seen you look at a girl. Why would you be attracted to them?”   
  
“Maybe I was so distracted by you that I just didn’t think to.”   
  
“That makes no sense. You check out guys.” Mello is smiling - but in that smug way that indicates he’s humored by Matt’s ridiculous.   
  
“Do I?”   
  
“Yes.” Mello rolls his eyes. “And you have a type. You like twinks.”   
  


“Guess so.” Matt yawns, the gap Mello created allowing him to slip his arm through and cover his mouth. “At least I can say I’ve tried everything now.”   
  
“Please. Me and some random slut hardly count as  _ everything _ .”   
  
That’s true, but Mello is still missing a detail. “You’re not the only one, you know.”   
  
An arched eyebrow. “Oh, really?”   
  
“Yes, really. There have been other guys.”   
  
“And not once, during your whole experiment, did you realize that the fact you’ve only ever been inclined to sleep with men might mean something?”   
  
“Sure I did, but I was still curious.”   
  
Mello squints at him, like he’s not buying it. Like there’s some other reason Matt would do what he did. Honestly - if Mello thinks so, it may be true. He’s always right about these sorts of things: interpersonal relations. He’s emotionally intelligent in ways Matt can’t understand, in ways unlike L or Near. So it’s a definite possibility that he understands some fundamental part of Matt that Matt’s too dense to get. 

The news continues to drone in the background, anchor still rattling off month-old facts that are just now being presented to the public, warped into Kira’s favor. This channel is total bullshit, right-wing ludacris that preaches Kira’s righteousness, owned by some tycoon that’s boldfaced in his support for the new way of the world. Matt doesn’t know how this can still be classified as news, but he supposes that’s just how things are now.

Mello takes Matt’s face in his hands and draws him in to kiss him. His mouth is dry and sharp, a hot line that splits into wetness as his tongue presses at Matt’s teeth. Fingernails dig little points into Matt’s cheeks, the rings Mello wears cold against heated skin. A moment of contact comes and goes, and Mello pulls away to wipe at Matt’s mouth with his fingertips. 

“You taste like lipgloss.” He complains.   
  
“Sorry.”   
  
“Better than cigarettes, honestly.”

“Hey!”   
  
Mello folds himself back into Matt’s embrace, arms around his sides, so he can cradle his back. He kisses him again without haste, slow and searching, in pace with the rhythm of his breath. Matt tangles a hand in his hair, relishes his warm body, his weight. 

They sit and kiss on the sofa for a long time, and it’s not lost on Matt that the simmering, churning feeling in his gut from just this is more powerful than anything he felt with Chelsea. Than anything he’s felt with anyone else.

It’s a sort of dreadful realization, that Mello is it for him. Because he knows it can’t last. Mello is ephemeral, impermanent. A ticking time bomb. 

* * *

During winters at Wammy’s House, the kids used to go skating on the frozen pond between classes. Although it was never really Matt’s thing, he was always coerced into joining by Mello, who lived for shit like that. Considering the fact that he was clearly the most talented, he ate it up - any chance to showcase his abilities, he’d take. Spinning circles around other kids who were still just getting their feet under them was a cherished pastime. He’d even somehow taught himself to do jumps, which he would showcase to any passing adult. When L was around visiting, that was all he’d do..

Matt has this memory of Mello kneeling down before him to tie the laces of his iceskates, pulling nearly enough to squeeze the blood from his ankles, insisting that if they weren’t tight enough, he’d lose balance and fall. Matt looked down at him, hyperfocused on the snowflakes caught in his hair, his mittened hands. Then Mello had glanced up and met his gaze, cheeks bright red in the cold, juxtaposing the electric blue of his eyes, and smiled. 

They waddled through the snow to the edge of the pond, Matt clinging to Mello’s arm while they stepped onto the ice. With the entirety of his weight concentrated into two, thin blades, pinned to the slippery ground, he felt utterly out of control, helpless. Weightless, almost, with his connection to the earth disturbed. Mello kept him anchored though, holding him aloft, hands tucked into the fold of his arm, chest a solid line against his side. Matt didn’t have to worry about falling, because he knew Mello wouldn’t let him. So they drew shaky circles around the perimeter of the pond, laughing together at Matt’s inability. Matt watched Mello’s profile and thought that if he was like the other boy, who wrote profound stories about the tales L told them, who could spin poeticisms out of mundanity, there might be something to say about this. Some analogy.

That was maybe half a year before L died, before Mello left. And Matt had been happy. Had known that Mello was special. Had wanted to be around him, always, just to linger in the warmth of his afterglow. It would’ve been enough.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Matt gets a phone call. He immediately knows something is wrong because this number is one known only by Mello, but the digits listed across his screen are unfamiliar. Mello has multiple phones, but Matt’s got each of the numbers memorized, and this one isn’t anything he can recall. He therefore considers not answering, chalking it up to a potential misdial - until he remembers what he had been doing before he drifted to sleep. Of all the goddamn times to finally catch some Z’s, he’d opted for the middle of a critical showdown; watching Mello barter with the Japanese police. All Matt’s coherency rushes back at once, his recollection of the situation unfolding. After Mello cooked up this particularly insane plan, Matt had vowed to tap into the security cams around the warehouse to watch the event unfold.

Fuck.

Both screens of his computers are currently black. The phone is ringing. Matt thinks of Mello’s insane plot, his last ditch effort. Something cold seizes in his chest, panic gripping him from the inside out, clawing up each row of his ribcage.

He presses the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Heavy breathing on the other line. Rasping at the hitching end of each inhale, wet and choked. And as Mello speaks, it sounds raw. “Matt.”   
  
“Yeah, it’s me.” Matt swallows the tense knot in his throat, fighting back his terror to present Mello with fabricated capability. He’s met with no response, only a weak, hacking cough. His pulse thunders between his ears. “Mello, what is it?”   
  
“Come get me.” Mello wheezes. “C’mon, you know I don’t like waiting.” Retching. And a final and feeble, “Please?”   
  


Mello never says please. He says ‘ _ this is what I want and you’re going to give it to me. _ ’ Hearing him sound this weak is so wrong it makes Matt’s insides twist together uncomfortably. Mello’s voice was not made for pleading, nor was it made to be desperate and aching. Matt has never heard him like this. He never wants to, again.   
  


“Yeah, I’m coming.” Matt insists, words leaving him with a rush of air. He hurriedly stands from his desk chair. “Just wait where you are, okay? I’ll find you. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Hurry.” Mello pleads.

“I’m hurrying, Mel.” Matt fights off the urge to cry as it swells from a pit in his stomach like a tidal wave. He wants to hang up so he can track this call to whatever payphone Mello must have called from, but he’s apprehensive to leave him. “Just hang on for me, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

  
“It doesn’t hurt,” Mello says in his wrecked, scratchy voice. “But it looks really bad. I can’t feel anything.”

“Just wait for me.” Matt hates how desperate he sounds, tearing through the apartment towards the door, hoping he can be fast enough.

“Matty,” Mello continues, “I’m sorry.”   
  
“It’s okay.” Matt nearly runs down the hallway. “Don’t worry about it man, I’ve got you. It’s gonna be alright.” He gets to the steps and takes two at a time.   
  
“No.” A pause, an audible struggle as Mello swallows. “For everything else. All my bullshit. You don’t deserve that.” Suddenly, there’s a burst of static as the connection wavers. Mello continues to speak, but Matt doesn’t catch it. All he gets is the aborted end of: “I love you.”   
  
Fear spreads through Matt from its epicenter in his chest, all the way to the tips of his fingers. It mingles with the all-encompassing, otherworldly sadness. Because he’s afraid that the call might drop and he won’t be to make sure Mello’s alive until he gets to him, and sad at the broken way he tells Matt how he feels. Is this what it takes? Is this what the world has done to them? Made it so they can’t speak of love until the last minute, the last breath?

But Matt didn’t lie to Mello - he is coming. He’s rushing to him, as quickly as he can, now throwing himself into the driver’s seat of his car. He jams the key into the ignition, feeling the thrum of life beneath him. 

So, that was it. Mello was forced into a corner, chose to sacrifice himself to guarantee his success. Blew up the whole fucking place. But he survived to this point.

So maybe there’s at least some hope at - at something.

“I love you, too.” Matt tells him. “I love you more than anything.”

* * *

_ End. _

  
  



End file.
